Welcome to *Celebrate Creativity*.

I am the Night Watchman here at the Hall of Imagination—the finest wax museum in the whole world, at least during the hours when respectable people are awake. After midnight, it may still be the finest wax museum in the world. But it is not always respectable.

I had just reported for work when the little red light began blinking on the telephone in the security office. I picked up the receiver.

Security office. Night Watchman speaking.

Could you come to my office, please?

Right now?

That is generally what people mean when they say, “Could you come to my office?”

Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Be right there.

*[RECEIVER CLICKS DOWN.]*

There are certain sentences that cause the human mind to begin reviewing every mistake it has made since birth. “Could you come to my office?” is one of them.

As I walked upstairs, I began taking inventory.

Had I forgotten to lock the west entrance?

No.

Had I filed Tuesday’s report under Wednesday?

Possibly.

Had somebody complained about the music coming from the Hall of American Culture at three in the morning?

That was not my fault. Chuck Berry had discovered the electrical outlet beside his platform.

Had Thomas Jefferson attempted to draft another declaration on museum stationery?

I had confiscated the pen.

Had Don Quixote attacked the floor-polishing machine again?

Not since Thursday.

I arrived at the supervisor’s door, straightened my jacket, and knocked.

Come in.

*[DOOR OPENS.]*

His office looked the way a supervisor’s office is supposed to look. There were framed certificates on the wall, folders arranged in careful stacks, and a clock that seemed to know exactly how late you were.

On one side of the room stood a small model of the museum. On the other side stood several wooden packing crates.

One of them was unusually tall and narrow.

Stamped across its side were the words:

**SPECIAL EXHIBITION—OCTOBER.**

The supervisor motioned toward a chair.

Please sit down.

If this is about the Tuesday report, I can explain Wednesday.

It is not about the Tuesday report.

And the damage to the floor-polishing machine was very slight.

This is not about the floor-polishing machine.

Then I would like it officially noted that Mr. Berry supplied his own extension cord. The supervisor leaned back and studied me. He did not look angry. That worried me even more.

Then he smiled.

You have done excellent work here.

I have?

You sound surprised.

Well, sir, when a man is summoned to an office and told to sit down, he does not ordinarily expect to receive a parade.

There will be no parade. But there is something you should know. We are very pleased with your relationship with the museum figures.

I stopped breathing for a moment.

My relationship with the museum figures?

Your conversations with them.

Conversations?

At night.

Sir, these are wax figures.

I am aware of that.

Wax figures do not talk.

Not to everyone.

Because if they did talk—and I am not saying that they do—I certainly would have reported it.

Would you?

Eventually.

You have worked here for some time.

Yes, sir.

During that time, attendance has improved. The exhibitions are livelier. Several figures who had become withdrawn are showing renewed interest in the world. One of them has begun writing again. Another has stopped asking to be placed in storage. And our resident philosopher, who once refused to speak to anyone born after the invention of the steam engine, now asks the cleaning crew for their opinions.

That could be coincidence.

It could. But it is not.

Maybe the ventilation system is encouraging them.

The ventilation system does not sit beside them and listen.

That shut me up.

The supervisor folded his hands on the desk.

Do you know what it is like to stand in the same position, day after day, while strangers stare at you?

No, sir.

People read the little cards. They take photographs. They point out the clothes, the hair, the famous pose. Then they move along. Very few visitors address the person represented. They see an object from history, not a human being who once feared, hoped, failed, loved, quarreled, and dreamed.

He nodded toward the museum model.

But you talk to them. More importantly, you allow them to talk to you. That kind of communication is excellent for the mental health of our wax figures.

The mental health of the wax figures.

Precisely.

Do we have a department for that?

We do now.

And who runs it?

Apparently, you do.

I looked behind me, half expecting to find another Night Watchman in the room.

Sir, I do not mean to challenge museum policy, but I was hired to protect the figures.

Exactly.

From theft, vandalism, and fire.

Those are not the only dangers in a museum. Loneliness can do damage. So can being remembered incorrectly. So can having the most painful moment of your life printed on a card and mounted beside your head.

I glanced at the tall packing crate.

How long have you known?

That the figures speak?

Longer than you have worked here.

And you never told me?

Would you have believed me during your job interview?

No, sir.

Would you have accepted the job?

That would have depended on the dental plan.

He laughed.

We did not hire you merely because you had worked in a museum before. We hired you because you understood that exhibits sometimes come alive.

Metaphorically?

We allowed you to believe that.

*So this entire time, while I have been protecting their secret from management—

Management has been protecting your secret from the board of trustees.

Does the board know?

The board believes the October exhibition will increase gift-shop revenue. Let us not burden them with wonder.

I relaxed a little. Not entirely. A man does not learn that his employer knows about his midnight conversations with dead celebrities and immediately become comfortable.

But something inside me loosened.

I had spent all that time worrying that I would be called foolish, dishonest, or insane. Instead, the supervisor was telling me that listening to the figures was part of my job.

Maybe the most important part.

Then I am not in trouble?

No. In fact, I called you here because I need your help.

Join the hall of imagination where we learn what the supervisor actually WANTS from the night watchmen and how it relates to Edgar Allan Poe. And I'd like to end this episode with a song that Edgar Allan POES mother saying I'm on stage when Edgar was just a baby. Nobody coming to marry me. This has been George Bartley, and thank you for listening to celebrate creativity